M is For
by palaces.out.of.paragraphs
Summary: Stuck in a loveless marriage, Mary is desperate to escape and save her reputation. Amidst this, she discovers a threatening secret of Henry's. However, everything is never always what it seems. (Brary with a few slightly graphic scenes. More borderline T/M)


_**There is something calling me to write a tragically beautiful thing. Because that is life. Tragedy and beauty, though we would all be so fortunate as to have the latter far outweigh the former. This story was composed over several weeks and, well, expect something different if you are familiar with my writing. Also, you know what they say about first person perspective: never trust the narrator.**_

 _The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist._

 _-The Usual Suspects (1995)_

The first time he calls me "wife", I feel nothing. No thrills travel down my spine; no drifting off into endless thoughts about how real it is. It is not real. His fingers burn my skin as they travel up and down, tapping against the inside of my thigh. His eyes are focused on everything but mine. His tongue brushes his lower lip as he pulls at the buttons on his shirt. One pops off, dropping to the floor, as he chuckles. Wife. He says it again.

In his place, I imagine a blonde haired man an inch or two shorter, more muscular, with bright blue eyes. I imagine my husband.

Henry's left hand brushes against me, his eyes finally drifting to me. He slips a finger in and then the most primal part of me cannot help but react. He curls his finger, delight in his eyes. He loves me, he says. He loves me, Mary Talbot. The words bring bile to my mouth as I fall back against the sheets. Let them consume me; let him consume me. This is what is supposed to happen. We are married after several long hard trials. But we did not go through a war, a fiancée dying in the house, or a financial crisis brewing. All that happened was Henry's friend dying and rather rude words slipping from his lips. His frown, his desperation, they filled the air. What was I to do?

Henry thrusts inside without warning. His hands begin to wander and a moan of approval escapes. This is all I want, a carnal need satisfied. He thrusts harder, my walls clutching him. Matthew. Matthew. _Matthew— my love — never stop. Never stop. This. Forever. Harder. Forever._

The words could tumble out as Henry's hair falls in front of his eyes. His lips brush against my breasts. It is pleasant enough. It does not lack effort. The difference is that I only need this; he wants it.

 _Matthew. Matthew. Never stop. Harder. Harder. Forever. Harder._

* * *

The morning after, he rolls out of bed. He wears smirk on his face as he rubs his thumb against my palm.

"That was quite assuredly the best night I've ever had. The best thing ever, of anything," he declares. His smirk is lazy he pops open the top button of his shirt.

 _Really?_ "Wonderful," I reply.

"I love you."

There is something I should say. Assure him, appease him. My husband. The words are there, I know them. I see them. There is a sick sort of pleasure as I allow him to stare. He opens his mouth to speak again when Anna comes in.

"Good morning, Anna."

She smiles softly, "Milady."

"Well I suppose I shall see you later, Henry."

His brows furrow again in that predictable way of his. His pink lips purse as he glances at Anna's back. Finally, his face shows nothing. He is learning. He leaves without a word.

"How are you Anna?"

"I am eager to have the baby, Milady. May I ask, are you alright?"

"Oh yes. Are you inquiring about Henry and I? No need to be shy, ask. We are ill suited and I enjoy nothing from him but physical pleasure. And then, do you know, I picture my dead husband. The first husband, that is. I picture him alive, his smile, the pink tip of his member pushing into me. And out. And in again. And then I remember he is dead and gone and that is the least of my worries. That is where I am, so you needn't ask again. I love you Anna, so let us not hide behind this silly pretense that I am happy and in love."

Anna's cheeks are flushed at the indecency and cruel tone. Her hands intertwine and she nods, settling on ruffling my dress. "Perhaps spend time with Mr. Branson? That seems to always brighten your day."

"Mr. Branson seems awfully entertained with Edith's blonde and aggressive coworker. Lord knows why. He could do better. I shall be abhorred to know he holds her on the same standard as Lady Sybil."

"I'm sure not. Just as you do not with Mr. Talbot."

My eyebrows raise. "Anna, thank you but that's too much of a presumption. I do not hold Mr. Talbot to the same standard as Mr. Crawley because he could never reach it. He plays with cars. Matthew was a lawyer, a good one, preparing to be the next earl."

Fanning myself, I gaze out at the lawns. Unlike so many things, this place remains timeless on the outside.

"Well, perhaps Mr. Branson is different— "

"True. It's how he sleeps at night, the idea he is so different from us. Morals, emotions, and all," I reply with a wave of the hand.

Anna laughs before apologizing. Another wave of the hand and I'm dressed in a cream dress for the day.

"I shall go down and indulge Mama and Papa as their only close daughter. My, the thought of Edith as marchioness is a horrid one. Thank you for everything, Anna."

"Of course, Lady Mary. I'll go now."

"Anna? I really do love you."

* * *

The door slams shut behind Henry as he pulls at his tie in frantic motions. I watch him in distress as he tugs at his clothing, swearing the entire time.

"If I have to hear another bloody comment from that Honorable Larry Grey, I shall burst. Sickening. A damn waste of an evening."

"He is my godfather's son. We cannot ignore him."

"Yes but must he come along for the ride?"

"It would be improper to forbid him, as ghastly as he may be," I reply. Larry has gotten worse over the years. At one point, long ago, he was good company. He has since lost his reputation in our household. Think of poor Tom!

"Oh, of course. Standards. Expectations. Pretenses."

"Do not use that patronizing tone, Henry."

His back stiffens. He's brought his drink up with him, to cuddle in the night with. His hair is ruffled, nostrils flared. "I didn't intend to be offensive. Please be respectful, love."

His words are bitter. They infiltrate the air, our faces screwing up in distaste. This is what we are. Before I can comment, Anna shuffles in. Her protruding stomach makes travel harder. She offers an apologetic smile as her hands reach up to my hair. "Leave us, Henry," I murmur. He does not object. He pulls his glass to his chest, retreating to his own valet. Anna's slim fingers begin picking at the various pins. Her fingers press, kneading into my head. I can allow my eyes to slip shut for a moment.

"I hope I didn't come at the wrong time, Lady Mary."

"Oh there's never a right time."

Anna's gaze meets mine in the mirror. Her hands still kneading. She objects to stay silent. She is done and then I let the dress fall, pooling on the floor. It's a burgundy color and it makes me think of nights spent secretly dancing. Nights when I was someone's stick.

There isn't even a goodnight said. Just a touch of the hands, my nails scraping against her wrist as she passes. A plea. Don't leave me with him. Don't leave me with my consequences.

"Mary… "

"I'm too tired to talk, Henry."

"We need to."

"I don't see why. You dislike Larry Grey. Fine. You are not the first. Several years ago, he disgraced poor Tom. He slipped him something in his drink so that Tom would become the embarrassing amusement for the night. It was cruel. And yet, Tom bared this dinner well enough. I do not expect to hear rants or complaints tomorrow when we see him. If he can bare, then you can."

"That's hardly fair to say I can't even voice my displeasure of the man. Of course I feel bloody sorry that Tom had to experience that. But the man was just trying to rile me up. His talk of cars was as though they are nothing more than the toy figurine you see on my desk. There's more to it than that. He insulted my passion; I couldn't just sit there. Look Mary, I'm sorry you find that appalling. But I will not stand aside."

The material on the nightgown feels itchy. My fingers claw at it, trying to find release. "What he said was nothing truly disparaging. It doesn't compare to being slipped something unknowingly. The only good thing to come of it long ago was that Matthew decided T— "

"Do not bring Matthew Crawley into this," Henry pleaded. His eyes were narrowed.

"He is my husband!"

"No. No Marry; I am. You seem to forget that. Listen Mary, I love you. I adore you. But this constant comparing of me to Matthew Crawley and Tom Branson must stop."

His chest heaves as he pulls me into his arms. His fingers slide to the ribbon on my nightgown. His hand slides under, cupping my breast. His thumb rubs over my nipple, up and down. His eyes dance around my frame as he pulls at his pants. My arms hang at my side. What was I to do? I did not hate the idea of him taking me in this moment. The nightgown bunched up around my hips, navel barely exposed. His fingers dropped lower, lower, lower and—oh. Then, he freed himself before plunging in. His head dropped, focused on the task at hand.

"So good, love. So good. Good, fuck. Good," he whispered. My nails sunk in to his shoulders and he gave a cry. They were deep, perhaps.

 _Matthew. Matthew. Harder. Forever._

He reaches his peak, coming inside me. A flash of panic goes through me. We cannot have a baby. I do not want a little Talbot. I have George. George Reginald Crawley, Matthew's son. The only little boy I need. Henry does not speak of children. But I bet he pictures a little girl with my fair skin and his eyes. A little girl that will sit at his feet, grinning, saying "Yes, Daddy. I love you, Daddy."

But he should know that does not last. She will become corrupt. The pink bows on her dress will be torn off. Her French will be impeccable at the cost of fun and exploration. Her hair will be pulled so tight she feels faint. She will see the world as it truly is. Worse, she will see her parents as they truly are.

She will not like what she sees. She will not like who she is.

* * *

Tom tugs my elbow, stopping me from exiting the small library. He wants to talk. Perhaps about the cold looks between Henry and myself. He is now the champion of the downtrodden.

"Mary, how are you?"

"Well enough."

"Please, don't lie to me again."

His eyes are pleading; a clear window to his emotions. His nose has a tiny smudge of dirt on it. I decide not to say a thing because it's quite good to see imperfections exist outside my wayward marriage.

"It's nothing. Just Henry and I being ourselves."

"You've barely talked in three days."

"That's hardly new. We are just being open with the animosity."

"Mary, don't joke."

"I hardly think my life is a joke," I say. His mouth snaps shut, eyes drifting back to mine. His pacing stops as he slumps into the chair across from me. I can no longer picture him in his livery. I'm not sure if I ever could. My thoughts were so preoccupied with Matthew. _Matthew._

"I just worry about you. I know you Mary, even if you don't want to admit that. And Henry and I… well, with the shop and everything. I want to see you both happy." Together is the unspoken word. Why does he care? Why was Henry always the answer?

"Don't we all," I whisper. His eyes are focusing on my hands, wringing themselves together. It's unbecoming of a lady, our governess, Miss Prior, would say. We found better governesses and scholars, but at the oddest of moments, she haunts me.

" _Je ne sais pas. Répéte."_

" _Je n'ai pas."_

" _Non. Non, Mademoiselle Edith. Répéte, Je ne sais pas."_

" _Je n'ais—"_

" _Non! Oh la la… Mademoiselle Sybil, faites attention!"_

" _Desolé."_

" _Répéte, s'il vous plaît. Je ne sais pas."_

" _Je ne sais pas."_

" _Oui. Oui, Madamoiselle Mary. Parfait!"_

"Why can you not be happy with him? Why not allow yourself?"

 _Je ne sais pas._

"It might be not so much that I am not; it is that I cannot."

"Mary— "

"I know you care, Tom. I love you for that." My eyes drift to his lips. They are inviting, smooth looking despite being a little chapped. His gaze flickers downwards then away. We pretend we do not ponder each other's bodies. It is a game.

Henry bursts in and the moment is ruined. Soiled, like a little girl's innocence. He suspects nothing as he perches on the chair's arm. His hands fold at his sides. Slowly, a genuine smile spreads. "Hello there."

Tom does not dare to glance my way again. I twist my necklace around my pinky. It is because of Henry. Because I am a married woman. It can't be because I am his sister-in-law. Him, Sybil; me, Matthew. It's a lifetime ago. Sprinting from Ireland, meeting Grandmama, learning cricket. It is an age not forgotten, but not quite known. Not anymore. It has an air around it that makes it all seem like a wine-induced dream. A fine, expensive, deep red wine; but nonetheless induced. Henry laughs at something Tom has said. His body lurches forward as his chuckles surround us. He does not know what Sybil in pantaloons looks like. Or the shade of Lavinia's hair. Or Rose out on the scene one London night. He does not know the history. It is not imperative he know. Does he know our dog's name before Isis? Does he know how Granny gets when Grandmama visits? Does he know what Ms. Bunting's nasally voice sounds like?

 _Non. Il ne sait pas._

"If you'll excuse me," I say, rising. They both send me looks of mild alarm. With a false, cheery smile, I escape.

I find Mama walking the grounds. We discuss trivial matters. She tells a joke she heard at the hospital. It's not very good and we laugh as we realize that. She pats my hand and I think of the slip in the bathtub. The wind blows her hair as we head back inside. She begins muttering about the servants. Will we have to lower staff numbers? I bid her goodbye, her muttering echoes down the hall.

Henry is in our room when I arrive. My fingers clutch my hat, setting it down as we observe one another. "I love you," he says.

"I love you," I bite out. I think of where Tom's gaze was. I turn away from my husband.

He moves closer to me, his front pressing against my back. I frown. "Does 'Pamuk' mean anything to you?"

His movements still as he hums. "No, don't think so. Why? Should it?" His hands have begun moving again. He leans against the door for support.

"No. I suppose it shouldn't to you," I reply. The man's brown locks and eyes swirl in my mind. There is a small bit of satisfaction that he is nothing but a memory, an unheard-of man. He is nothing to Henry and so why should I tell him? He would gain nothing by knowing I lost my virginity before marriage. Besides, I had willingly given myself to Tony in between husbands. Was that not more sinful? The fact is, I crave the touch.

Henry guides my hand to his pants, palming his erection. A groan slips out of him.

"We do not have time," I say.

"No one would care," he hisses back. His fingers clutching mine as his hips push against my hand.

A flash of anger slips through me and I sink my nails in. Henry yelps, jumping backwards, shoulder blades hitting wood. He swears as he moves away from me. Straightening his shirt, he asks, "What the hell was that for?"

"I said we can't. I am going to see George and Sybbie now."

He does not try and block my way. He stares, in partial horror, as I stride away.

* * *

Henry decides a trip to London is due. There is a spring in his step the moment he announces his little vacation. Without pause, he launches into when he will go and where he will stay. His train of thought does not break to remember he has a wife. There is no invitation. It is not until Granny points this out, that both our cheeks sting in embarrassment. For a moment, I think he will fumble, words spilling out in anything but a graceful manner.

Instead he says, "Mary does not wish to go."

My head rears before I say anything. This is not the Henry I know. This is someone with an understanding of how to play the game. I would almost be proud of him, if I did not despise him so much in that moment. His hands do not slow their movements as he focuses on his dish. Granny's eyebrows reach her hairline as she glances between us.

"Do you not think you should join your husband, Mary?" she asks.

I want a stronger drink than the pleasant French wine we sip. One of those fancy new cocktails would be nice. Or, perhaps, some of Papa's brandy would suffice. Downing the rest of the glass, I shake my head. "I trust Henry will not be there too long. We wouldn't wish to give off the impression he dislikes Downton."

Henry's hands pause; his eyes flicker from Granny's to mine. Then he seems to settle on someone he considers safe. Tom.

"Indeed, it is not an extended vacation or anything of the sort. Just going up for a bit. Business perhaps, aye Tom? I also have a few racing pals I would like to see. That sort of thing, Lady Grantham. A terrible bore for Mary." His voice gains strength as he finishes up his statement. His thumb presses against his knife until it's white. He offers the classic half-grin as his gaze lands on Granny.

"Is that true, Mary? You find your husbands unusual _sport_ ," her lips pinch together, "so lacking in excitement?"

"I suppose you could say that," I concede. "Automobiles, after all, will never hold merit in my eyes."

Even Barrow, in the corner, stiffens. I was never afraid to betray even my blood sister; why should Henry be different? Mama sends me glances, stretching her neck out.

Henry chuckles. His hands linger on his wine glass before dismissing it for water. "One wonders what holds merit in your eyes, dearest. Besides Downton of course. Ah, but we know the fortune of such great, big homes are uncertain."

"I beg your pardon," Papa says.

"Hypothetically speaking, Lord Grantham. _Robert._ "

I glance at Tom, across from me. His brows are furrowed as he mulls over Henry's statement. Downton has become as much a project for him as it is for me. His pink lips part slightly. He seems to realize I am staring as he offers me a pitying smile. Henry Talbot will never understand Downton like us. We know that now.

How tragic, they must all think. The woman falls short of becoming countess and then marries a grown child with no appreciation for the finer things. How they must all laugh. How they must all hum and murmur the middle daughter is marchioness. _Marchioness, can you believe? And they said_ she _was the unfortunate one._

Henry's hands grip his utensils as he begins to cut the meat again. Firm, fast movements.

I will not let him have the upper hand in our relationship. I married him, yes. I gave in then, but it ends now. He will not win. I glance at Tom's lips again. They must feel like velvet.

Henry's knife scrapes against the plate. He mumbles an apology that doesn't sound half heart-felt. Perhaps, we could make it work. If we tried harder. If our relationship was more than quick pleasure and avoidance of true issues.

The thrill was gone. Walking down the street in the dark, stealing kisses was gone. Sex in a luxurious hotel was gone. Our love was gone. Was it ever there?

 _Je ne sais pas._

* * *

Henry's bags are packed the night before his departure. The luggage sits in the corner of our room, taunting us. There is a glint in his eye as he slouches onto the bed next to me. No words seem necessary to him now as he pulls at the strings and thin straps of my nightwear.

"A goodbye gift, darling?" he asks. His eyes search mine as his calloused fingers run down my arms. There is a moment where we simply are; it is a nice enough moment. Then, I nod and his fingers eagerly return to their mission.

We both are stripped of our clothes, laying on the covers instead of tucked away. His hands run through my hair and he murmurs an appreciation of its growing length. Our hands find each other's most intimate parts like a routine check-up. His fingers pinch my nipples too hard, eliciting a cry he mistakes for pleasure. "Oh, Mary."

He slips in, before placing hands on either side of my head, driving in and out. Grunts get louder, hands grasp harder, and at the last minute I push him away. He gives a strangled moan as he falls out.

"I'm quite tired suddenly. A bit faint, even. Finish it yourself."

He bites his lip. He is torn between assisting me if I am sick, or relieving himself of his hard state. He settles with the latter as he grips himself, pumping with great enthusiasm. A final moan, and he squirts out and it runs down my naval. There is no apology as he settles back on his feet in search of his pants.

"Do you need relief?" he asks, head popping back up.

I think of dearest Matthew. I think of his blond wisps that traveled down his chest and below his hips. And then, Tom enters my mind. His cerulean colored eyes. His laugh. His look of concentration. I stifle a groan, gripping the sheets in an effort to remain in control. "No," I hiss.

Henry nods, his attention now elsewhere. After cleaning up, I pull the sheets back over me. By tomorrow night, the bed will be mine. There is a sort of ache in my heart, that I want loneliness over my marriage.

I will not give up though. I will not go the easy way and file for divorce. That action is so _common_ and I would sooner rot in hell than be that.

But if I end it, that is a whole other matter. My name will not be tarnished. Downton will remain glorious along with the Crawley family. But Henry Talbot? He will _not_ be a part of it. He is depriving me of my happiness and sanity. My chance to shape Downton Abbey into something unbreakable for when George becomes lord.

I think of the ex-chauffeur who sleeps under this roof. My dear brother-in-law. My dear brother-in-law with the pretty eyes, charming smile, and quick wits.

Henry Talbot will not ruin this. And I will not die with Talbot as my name.

* * *

Her name is Lilith Alexandra Pruitt. She stands a bit under average height at the prime age of twenty-five. She has strawberry blonde hair and unusually dark green eyes. She has an older brother, a man just a year older than Henry. His name is David and his favorite pastime is racing automobiles. The man came to our wedding. He wore a suit that was a bit worn and tried all the various champagnes offered.

He was a bit too much like Henry for my taste. He was everything I was trying to convince myself Henry was not, as I walked towards him in my cream dress.

Lilith seems like the girl I would have dismissed in my first couple seasons. The sniffling, shy, _weak_ girl that will get whatever man is left. But it is easy to disregard the fact that these qualities men love. Her demure persona equaled _submissive._ She would not play the game; she would watch them do it.

She is the type of girl who still believes in the idea of love and that all men will do you right.

I remember Miss Prior's unwelcomed advice as we would sit, in the sun, during lessons.

" _These petite mademoiselles will become dangerous. For they will see what the real world is and there is nothing worse than a woman scorned."_

 _Mary stopped practicing her script, to eye Miss Prior. She was a bit older than Mama, yet wore no nice rings on any of her fingers. At least, not on the one that mattered. Miss Prior's lips were set in a firm line._

" _What do you mean scorned?" asked Edith. Her golden locks were in a plait, accentuating her round cheeks._

" _Mademoiselle, en Français!"_

 _Edith whimpered, eyes flickering to the door. They were not the most studious of pupils, Sybil especially. "Je ne sais pas comment."_

" _Quoi?"_

" _Je ne sais pas comment."_

 _Mary watched her younger sister's shoulders slump in defeat. Her posture was not good and then, Miss Prior saw fit to correct that over the mispronounced French. Miss Prior. Madame Prior, but only because she was elder. Mary watched the woman sway in her baby blue dress. She would not be a woman scorned if Miss Prior was any indication of what was to come._

 _Not that she had a choice. Patrick would marry her. Patrick could, maybe, love her. He might hold her hand the way Papa held Mama's. He might kiss the corner of her mouth when he thought no one was looking, like her parents did._

 _She would not be a woman scorned._

* * *

Henry returned a few days later after I learned of his affair. He is cheerful and scoops me into his arms. How charming. How husbandly.

He claps Tom on the shoulder and shakes Papa's hand. Will he seduce them every time?

"Tom," I whisper, as we walk inside.

"Yes?" he asks, eyebrows raised. We haven't gotten to talk in several days due to my discovery.

"I feel as though you're drifting from me."

His cheeks turn pink. "I hadn't mean to give you that impression, Mary. I just wanted to give you space to live your life."

"But I never said I desired that. And even so, you never just go along with what I say."

"I, well, no. But with Henry and all— "

Even on Tom's sweet lips, his name falls flat. I resist the urge to dig my nails into my arms. My husband is the cause of this.

"If Henry has said something, disregard it. He doesn't get to say what you and I do. He is not a, a _master_ in this relationship." Dictatorship almost leaves my lips. I press my teeth down on my tongue, just enough to stay in control.

"I don't want to come between you two. Although, Mary, is everything fine?"

It almost feels like how things were. How things should be. A weight seems to lift off my shoulder as I squeeze his wrist. "It will be."

Several days later, it is Sunday, meaning Church in the morning. I find my tan colored hat and adjust it on my head. There's no need for disturbing Anna.

"Are you sure you won't accompany us, Henry?"

He pushes himself up into a sitting position. His fingers run along the bed sheets. He put his fingers inside me last night.

"No thanks. Besides, isn't it just you and your parents going? Tom does not go there, right?"

"No," I say, bowing my head, "Tom and Sybbie go to mass. A Catholic service."

He shrugs, batting at an imaginary fly. "God was never really my thing. I'm sorry."

His hands drop back to the bed. Has he pushed his fingers inside Lilith? Has he thought of her while he fornicates with me?

"It's good to pray," I murmur. Then, flattening my dress, I exit.

"Good day," Henry half shouts behind me.

I find a pew not far from Anna and Bates. The man has his head bent low, eyes squeezed shut as if someone is trying to force them open. Anna is much chattier. Bates. A man thought to have murdered another man, yet Anna loves him. A man thought to have done wrong multiple times, but not proved. He must sense my gaze because his eyes snap open and he nods in my direction.

Bates is either a man with unfortunate luck or a clever, careful mind.

After church, we find Tom in the small library entertaining Sybbie and George again.

"I hope you two haven't worn him out," I say.

Tom pretends to look affronted as he picks up a squealing Sybbie. My sister's daughter. My goddaughter.

"And were you two having fun?"

"Yes, Mama," replies George. He picks up his stuffed horse, a gift from Isobel, and runs into my arms. Matthew's son. His heir. He deserves more than Henry.

"I'm very happy to hear that. Thank you," I say to Tom. His eyes shine brighter as he rubs my arm. We sit across from the children as they giggle and gasp at the game played. Life for them is a game and a fun one at that.

"Anything for the children," replies Tom, eyes drawn to the them.

"You are a good father, Tom Branson."

"And a good uncle, I hope."

Shaking my head, I whisper, "Not an uncle. Practically a father to Georgie." _Georgie._ I am confident that is what Matthew would have called him.

Tom seems alarmed at the words. "Well, no more so than Henry."

A groan escapes my lips, but I offer a smile. "We were having a nice conversation, Tom. Don't jinx it now."

"I would think him more a blessing, than a curse."

"I know you see him as a friend. I am happy you have found someone, a male friend outside our original group, servants included. But, I don't know, he is a bit free-spirited and not in the wonderful way. Not like how you were, once upon a time." It is all I can say without Lilith's name slipping out.

George is now pushing his train against Tom's shoe as Sybbie makes noises in the background. Soft "choo-choos" fill the room.

"I suppose that's true enough. Mary, I will always put our friendship, our past first."

His hand touches mine for the briefest of moments. I thought the Tom I knew was drifting away, but in this moment, it is clear he is here, buried underneath, rising upwards.

* * *

"I want to travel to London," I announce one evening. We are retiring for bed, Henry in a decent mood. My hair curls slightly, reminding me of Sybil's in her last months.

"What has brought this up, dearest? Not that I am upset. I'd quite like to venture back there."

"It is not as if I detest London life, Henry. Anyways, I would like this trip for myself. Just myself and, perhaps, Anna accompanying."

At this point, he scoffs. The sheets rustle behind me enough to know he is now fidgeting in the bed. "Is that wise?"

Tingles run down my spine. "I am a grown woman."

"I was not insinuating you were anything but. However, are you not wanting to project this merry marriage to everyone? You going up there alone does not seem to do that."

I twist in the chair, my lips fighting to stay in a line. We eye each other for a moment. He is learning how to play our game. A part of me is proud, but I know who he is. He is hurting me, destroying me in bits. "I hardly think one would talk if I go up for two days at most. My aunt does live there, if you recall. Did you once consider that I might want to check on her? After all, her only other living niece has run off to try and play mama marchioness in the countryside."

Henry flashes his palms up in surrender. "It's just that you did not mention Rosamund."

"Well what else could I go up for? Now is not the prime time for fashion. And family is first. But you know that, Henry, dear."

He grumbles as he pulls the sheets closer to his chest. I turn around again to stare at my reflection. The only thing people ever seemed to see in both Sybil and I was our beauty. Our dark, wavy locks that fell around our face and down our backs. She chopped hers, and years later, I chopped mine. The ends curl up, just avoiding my shoulders. _Sybil._ The darling, beautiful baby. She was incapable of having the dreaded heart her eldest sister had. But, she was incapable of wielding her power and position the way her eldest sister did. Thank heavens though, she had something beyond her title, unlike the middle daughter. That is what they said. Their whispers that bounced off the walls and filtered into our ears. No wonder Sybil was so sickened. No wonder she craved another life where she could stay _darling Sybbie_. No wonder Tom was so enticing.

Tom.

He was beginning to seem like himself again. He never quite left, but having Henry in the house made everyone shift in their seats. Tom loved cars, but he was good at expressing himself in a way that did not put others off. Poor Henry. The only way the man was going to survive was by learning the game. Not Tom. Tom crashed against us like waves hitting the sand, soaking in, and pulling. Tom needn't ever be anything other than Tom. That is why he is enticing.

I push away from the vanity, fingers shaking. I can still picture Sybil in here, the morning of my wedding, her husky voice filling the air as she told me what a romance I had. It seems a life time ago. So much so that I can just barely picture her in the floppy hat.

Sliding into the bed, Henry clears his throat, waiting for me to say more. "So that is settled than."

"I suppose. I know not to fight you on this, though it seems silly you should want your husband to laze around here."

"Well I wish you would become more invested in Downton like you said you would. That is what I want. Help Papa. Help Tom. Lord knows you have him drooling when you walk in. I can't imagine why."

"I don't know what you are implying and I do not want to know. Maybe you should go alone. It will leave us both with time to reflect."

"On what Henry? The state of our marriage? We're both quite stuck at the moment and two nights in London will not fix that. I am sorry love, but I was born knowing I would not get to relish my life. But Matthew changed that. Now, here we are. This is what we have been dealt, Henry. I'm afraid this is our life for now. Please, let this be the end of the conversation."

"Mary, you make it damn hard to love you."

He blinked before rolling over on his side, back to me.

 _Il est un beau fou._

Anna bustles around the next morning, murmuring about London weather. In between, she talks about her baby. Motherhood suits Anna in a way I never could have comprehended. It comes naturally. The baby is not coddled, nor ignored. Having known Anna for years, I am quite assured the child will feel comfortable going to her for anything. Even dragging a body.

Pamuk flashes through my mind. Before the war it is picturesque besides him.

"It won't matter, Anna. I will only be there two days. And while I plan on walking around a bit, I shall be with Rosamund. Anything I need, my aunt will have."

"Of course. I did not mean to say I doubt Lady Rosamund."

"I didn't think you were. You are too good, Anna. I thank you, as always. I needed a friend outside my sisters and the rest of the aristocrats. I did not think I would find it in you, yet here we are."

"Thank you, milady. But, why the nostalgia this morning?"

"No reason. Now don't worry, I shall manage without you with the help of Lady Painswick's maids. Say hello to your baby for me with the time off. Tell me, is Bates doing well?"

"The happiest he has ever been, Lady Mary. After everything we have been through- it was all worth it."

My eyes flicker to hers, admiring the way her pink lips turn up. Her husband's guilt is a clear thing of the past, not to be dug up again. "That is exactly what I wished to hear."

* * *

The strawberry blond curls are sleeked back under an olive colored hat. The steps are brisk, almost as if they are worrisome.

She enters a small patisserie. The French foods call to me, but Miss Prior always warned against eating too many delectable foods.

 _Manger font grosse._

After a bit, she wanders back out, arms wrapped around her body as if she were a child. She leads the way to an _upper_ middle class street. Clearing my throat and straightening my dress, I knock on the door she has just entered.

It takes a moment for the large mahogany door to open.

"Yes?"

"Is this the residence of Lilith Pruitt? I believe her brother and my husband are good friends."

"And who are you, Madame?" The butler's eyes drift behind me.

"Lady Mary Craw-Talbot. I've come in acquaintance with Miss Pruitt's brother, David."

With shuffling, the door swings open, and I step forward.

Lilith's cheeks flush as she grasps my hand, preparing to play hostess. "It is a pleasure. I do believe my brother, Dave, mentioned you."

"Yes, _Dave_ has been to Downton."

"I am honored that you called on me Lady Mary. I'm afraid I am ill prepared for visitors though. Our butler, Giles, leaves twenty minutes from now. We live quite simply."

"Oh, no matter. I only wanted to chat. Now, David, your brother, races rather frequently. Do you watch often?"

"Here and there. I do enjoy a good automobile race." Her hair is frizzy and the tips of her shoes knock together every few seconds.

"Yes. Hmm, have you heard of Henry Talbot?"

Her cheeks turn pink as she gazes out the window. "Yes. Mr. Talbot. I know him."

"What a small world it is. You see, that is my husband."

It is almost comical the way her back hits her chair and her legs untangle. Her hands grip her knees as her mouth parts open like a fish out of water. She is helpless. "I-I, well, what a small world indeed, Lady Mary."

"You seem shocked."

"Mr. Talbot often refers to you as wife. I had not known your name. It's a pleasure, Lady Talbot."

My fingers tap against the arm rest as the girl continues to squirm.

"How interesting a word. _Pleasure._ Tell me, Miss Pruitt, what is pleasure to you?' I ask, eyelashes fluttering.

She shakes her head, shrugs her shoulders, her lips curling down. "I would not know. A good book, I suppose."

"A good book? I enjoy novels too, I admit. Have you heard the story of Andromeda? You see, there is a sea monster and a prince. She is captured, but she is rescued. She gets a happy ending. But what if the prince does not know he is the prince? What if he thinks the role is filled? Well, Andromeda has to save herself. She isn't a wilting flower; she is a survivor."

"Women are making strides every day, in the workforce and everywhere."

"You sound like my sister. But let's not bring Edith into this. Three is a crowd, I hear. And, you know, I have learned over recent months that it is. Now, Miss Pruitt, tell me what pleasure is. Is it when Henry puts his fingers into you and curls them? That's a move he uses on everyone, it seems. Is it when you let him dominate you and he takes you from behind? When he pushes you into the soft hotel sheets?"

Lilith's cheeks flush. "I suppose that is what you want to think. Henry has told me about you. Controlling and obsessed with your Irish brother-in-law. What is next, raising your son as a communist? I thought Henry was being dramatic, but I now see that he was not."

She was now standing, legs shaking, as she continued to gaze out the window. Her hair seems to come looser, unwinding, unraveling.

"You think you are special now, but Henry will move on. I won't have you ruin my reputation or my family's. These men are just a bunch of fast-pace loving boys. They will not grow up. But perhaps you belong with them?"

Her eyes shine as she spins towards me. The butler is long gone. It is her and I. She gives a strangled cry, her ivory colored shoes walking across the rust colored rug. One moment, she is trembling in confusion, the next her eyes are set on prey.

I feel something collide with my cheek; I let out a cry as I fall backwards in to the hall. She follows, the pitch of her cries fluctuating. My hair, Sybil's hairstyle, is pulled backwards.

"Just stop," I hiss. My jaw hurts as my palms meet the floor.

"I—love Henry," yells Lilith.

The floor feels as though it is shaking. I push away from her as she gives labored cries. " _Bitch!"_ Her words vibrate off the walls. I scramble for my hat, and rush out the door.

* * *

I sit, in my new emerald evening dress from France, as the investigators question me. The left side of my jaw has doubled in size, purple splotches over my body. The moment is hazy, but I recall it as best I can. All I hear is Lilith calling me that crude word as her arms reach everywhere.

"I have informed Henry," says Aunt Rosamund, reentering the room.

Henry. My husband. Perhaps strolling the grounds aimlessly or chatting about cars with whomever will listen. Henry. Henry who no longer tries. Henry who whines about Downton and routines and me. Henry who fucks twenty-five-year-olds in nice hotels.

"She mentioned Henry."

"Pardon, Lady Mary?"

"She mentioned Henry. She knew him well, I understand. However, I had not heard her name brought up by him once."

Their passive faces turn into frowns. Henry has been brought into this. He wanted action, after all.

 _You see what the real world is, oui, Mademoiselle?_

* * *

In everything, I find comfort in Tom. His fist balls in anger when he first catches sight of my bruised face and arms. The children should not see this, we decide.

He assists me, saves me. He is my salvation.

"I just cannot believe it. I mean— _Henry_ —sleeping peacefully in this house. How could he speak with such false candor to us, knowing this was going to happen?" Tom asks. His brows furrow as his thumb brushes mine.

"I want to move on from all of this. As if it never happened. As if our marriage never happened. As if, well, it was only ever just Matthew and I."

 _Matthew. Matthew. Matthew. Harder. Harder. Forever. Matthew._

"Do you mean an annulment? That is quite different from divorce. Though, you're wise Mary, you know that."

"I do. It seems perfect for moving past such a horrific thing. You know, like Anna and Bates. Everyone in this household has opinions on that first and _second_ matter. Yet he is still here, even though he perhaps murdered someone. It's not an official annulment, but it seems like one. We've moved past and forgotten. Now his baby will be in the Downton nursery. And he is happy. That is what I want."

"What, are you saying Henry is Bates? We just forgive the man?"

"No, no one is Bates. That was just an example of how it is possible for everyone here to move on. I mean, we have moved past war, heartbreak, and alleged murders. What is this?" I ask, shrugging my shoulders.

Tom smiles, his blue eyes meeting mine. "Well, when you put it like that."

"An annulment it is. Not just divorce, that isn't enough. I want Henry Talbot erased from my life. I want a fresh try, without family interference."

Tom's cheeks pinken as he nods his head in consent. "You know I only ever wanted your happiness."

"Believe me, Tom, I know. And I love you more every day because of that. Now, let us go, my face is healing and I want to give the children proper tea time."

"Good call. Sybbie's getting quite good with pouring."

"A lady in the making."

* * *

Word got out that Henry Talbot, former husband to the Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter, was a criminal. In jail for some amount of time. The spotlight was thrust on us again. It was life again like between Matthew and Henry. Suitors came calling, Papa squirmed in delight, and Tom eyed them in amusement. Edith was not here for the amusement, but the cheerfulness jumped off her supposedly somber letter. She was married and with child. I had a possible annulment.

"That is a very Catholic thing," muttered Papa. He was over the worst of his bubbling anger and back to comforting his internal organs.

"Do hide your distaste, Papa. The wine is bitter enough."

"We are Anglicans. That is how this all works. All these things coming up sound very, erm, Roman. I would not want George getting, well, I don't know—stolen by a priest."

"Robert, be realistic," Mama chastised.

"Well how would you feel if your grandson dropped to the floor saying those Hail Mary's or whatever they are called."

"It is a Hail _Mary_. It's a beautiful prayer," Tom said with a shrug. "Sybbie likes it."

Papa's eyes bulged as he sent painful looks to Mama.

"You act as though I am converting."

"Are you not, with all this talk?"

"This conversation is too heavy for the cake that will be coming out. Please, can we talk about this later?" I ask.

Mama seems grateful as she brings up her latest visit to the hospital with Isobel. Her voice gets airy as she speaks of the different people she encountered. Across from me, Tom raises his eyebrows. A smile plays on his face. Tom is back again. I am back again. We are revived.

* * *

"Did you know, Anna, that in Catholicism you may not marry a divorced person?"

Anna's hands do not pause as she unclasps my necklace. "I did not, Milady. However, I am not very educated in the Roman Catholic religion."

"Neither am I."

"Does this have to do with Mr. Branson?" she asks.

"I never said a word about him."

* * *

I have gone to visit Henry. Just once, for closure. For the farewell we should have had long ago.

"You set everything up, Henry. Do not toy with me any longer. You wanted my money. You wanted it for you and that girl, Miss Pruitt. And how did you plan on getting away with it?" I ask, furiousness creeping in with every word.

He sits there, eyeing me, hands chained together. "Lilith was a harmless, sweet thing. They wouldn't let me see her body. I wanted to. Do you know, they said she got several hits to the head with something from inside the house, I suppose. You killed her. Jealous, Mary? Of that young thing that fucked me with pleasure."

"Do not talk to me with such vulgarity. You wanted me gone. I had to defend myself. There were scratches and bruises on my arms for days after. You did not care though. You have to pay for your crimes now, Henry. And I shall never utter your name with the word 'husband' again. This is goodbye, Mr. Talbot. Forever."

"She was better than you. More receptive. Her pink lips around me was a piece of Heaven I never received when with you. And she would bounce on top, pink nipples rising, curls surrounding her. Those curls now caked with blood in spots because of _you._ I saw you at Brancaster, and I thought, there—there is a true lady. You fooled me, Mary, love."

I shook my head, lip curling in disgust and fear he would see me break. He looked crazed; I did not recognize the Henry I had kissed in the rain. "I had to save myself. For George. Goodbye."

 _Au revoir, mari._

He opened his mouth to say more, but I darted out. I had spent more time visiting people in prisons than I had ever imagined growing up. Blowing strands of hair out of my face, I headed for the car. Back to Downton.

* * *

"Sybbie, Auntie Mary is attending church with us today. Are you excited, love?" asks Tom. He runs a hand through her choppy bob, caressing the dark strands.

"Yes, Papa. And Granny and Donk?"

"No, doll. You will have to settle for myself only."

Her face scrunches up in delight as she hums a bedtime rhythm. She does not question why the sudden change or where Uncle Henry is or why her grandparents are not joining them. She simply carries on. She is Sybil.

My hair is a bit wavier, hanging in between my chin and shoulders. I am dipping my toe in the holy waters of Catholicism. I am Sybil, too.

"Right. Well, I think we can take off now. I hope you'll be comfortable," says Tom. He is more nervous than I have seen him in years. His fingers run down the edges of his hat as his gaze shifts between his daughter and me.

"Of course. I have you, don't I?"

His eyes flash for a moment and then he grins.

The church is unfamiliar despite living my entire life at Downton. It does not look grand. It does not appear as some beacon. It just sits there, though the Branson's do not seem to mind.

Tom holds the door open, before dipping two fingers into the water at the entrance. His eyes squeeze shut; his lips part as his fingers trail from his forehead, to his heart, to each of his shoulders.

He looks heavenly.

After it is over, we stumble back to the car. Sybbie chats merrily about the latest game she and _Georgie_ have invented. Tom nods along, sending glances my way every so often. He has driven us here today. He slips his leather gloves back on and I am transported to a time I long for.

Him and that smirk. The chauffeur's hat. The green. The Irish stubbornness appearing at every meal, with Sybil's knowing glances. The laughing with Matthew.

 _Matthew. Matthew. Forever._

The wind hits my cheeks, an almost sharp pain. My hands rest in my lap, against the turquoise dress. I am revived.

 _Je revigore._

* * *

"Would you like to accompany me?" asks Tom.

We are talking about the annual fair. Edith has written, wishing to bring Marigold and Bertie. Mama is now filled with excitement. Papa sees it as a chance to put his liver in harm's way again.

"As in, just you and I? Together as— "

"That is what I'm asking, yes," he replies. His blue eyes meet mine. He is the confident man I remember, that hung on to Sybil's every word and dared to contradict my grandmother.

Together. Us. Mary and Tom. It has already been like that for some time. Mary and Tom.

"If you ask properly," I whisper.

He rolls his eyes, leaning forward, asking, "Mary, will you accompany me to the fair?"

"Of course," I say.

He leans back into the chair, sipping his drink. "I hope I'm not asking too soon. That is, I do not know what I am asking. Only, after Henry and everything, I just want to be there for you in a way other than pushing someone towards you. You did not appreciate that; we—I did not listen."

"I know I am always saying to pay no attention to what I say, however, I hope you will to this because it holds only truth. I have moved past Henry Talbot and everything he brought. I am new again. I'm not a fragile doll; I do not believe I ever was. That was Edith's forte, not mine. I, Mary Crawley, am a storm braver. Always."

"That you are. The strongest woman I know is you, Mary."

My heart hammers in my chest. I see two pairs of blue eyes. My tongue burns from the alcohol.

 _I am not a woman scorned._

* * *

The reports on the pigs lay spread out on the wood desk. There were not as many pigs born as we hoped, but they appear to show improvement.

It is the type of research and talk that even Papa sometimes yawns at. However, Tom is with me. Legs sprawled out as he sifts through papers, commenting on crops.

"Shall we take a break?" he asks, grimacing at the documents.

I nod in agreement. We are not young like we were, and with the months getting colder, it is easier to rest. "Heaven knows, we have spent long enough on this."

"The rest would argue that, yes."

"I as well. I love Downton. I love this. It's all quite tiring though. And every letter, Edith writes complaining of _her_ life. Marchioness, please."

Tom chuckles even as he shakes his head. "She is balancing a lot. Give her that at least, Mary. And Marigold has no one to play with; it must be quite a challenge."

Rolling my eyes, I run a hand through my hair. "Let's not bring that up. I do not need more Edith and baby talk in my life. Every letter is about how she and Bertie are trying and nothing is happening. She is going to work Mama up as well. I never knew future talk had to be so draining."

"Does it?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

Tom shoves his hand in his pocket, fumbling around. My heart starts to burn. His smile is proud as he presents a thing gold chain. "This is for you."

A necklace. "It's quite pretty. Thank you, Tom."

My comment seems to pass over me as he continues staring at the jewelry. "It is for you to put your ring on. To keep Matthew close to you. Forever," he says. _Matthew. Matthew. Forever._ "Because I have been thinking about it and—marry me, Mary."

I think of George. I think of Sybbie in her pale pink birthday dress, ribbons in her short hair. I think of racecars and men named David. I think of Henry pulling at his shirt collar. I think of strawberry blonde curls hitting wood floor. I think of Larry Grey wrinkling his nose at dinner. Sybil in her nurse uniform. _Matthew._ I see him standing in Crawley house. I see him coming home. To Downton. To me. Forever.

Tom stands there silently. His smile is the most unsure I have seen him in a while. Was this what Sybil saw?

"Yes," I whisper.

We mold together, hands searching, confirming. This is what I wanted. I did not want to marry again unless it was real. Tom Branson and I are true. We may walk in that church I am unfamiliar with. Our fingers may trace their way across ourselves, prayer on lips. We may do whatever.

I have him. All we must do is plan.

Amongst the expected fuss from my parents, comes the happiness of the children. They begin to comprehend what is going on and jump for joy as if they were not already siblings. Edith writes that they will make the journey here. Her words are laced with false cheerfulness and complements. She hates being the odd one out. We are more alike than I thought, perhaps.

It is the moments when we are alone that I relish.

The veil is lifted off my face in a delicate manner. His hands shake and it is a reminder that this is real. This is us.

 _Bien, joue, Madame._

Our eyes do not dare look away as his fingers trail down my cheek to my breast. This is what I have wanted. This is what I missed. The delicate, meaningful caresses between people whose love is real. He murmurs in Irish as my hands reach out to help shrug his jacket off.

We know each other. We know what it is like to feel your heart escape, leaving you bare and hallow. Tom knows me. He knew Sybil. He knew Matthew. He knew.

Our lips press together and the words, "Mrs. Branson" escape his lips. I do not feel it important enough to protest as our hips buck against each other's.

Our skin is slick as we cling together. The room is hotter.

We are in the Inferno.

* * *

" _Papa!"_ George squeals, arms outstretched, as Tom twirls him around.

Tom is the one to have ever earned that title. Matthew is Father. And George loves him, but he can only learn so much from a man not living. Henry was called multiple things. He was called uncle for a good portion of the time. He was Henry. He was "Dad" just once. When George thought perhaps this man would lead him and cherish him the way I would.

"Hello there, Georgie. Not bothering Barrow too much, are we?" Tom asks.

George shakes his head, grin still in place.

"And where is Sybbie, darling?" I ask.

"Learnin' how to bake a cake, Mummy," replies George in a rush. He is now focused on the dog, also in the room with us.

Baking is not for us to do. I almost say it, but Tom chuckles in dismissal of George's words. The child soon loses interest, running out the door.

"My, times are changing. If Granny heard that, I daresay she would have a heart attack."

"Well, you know my opinion on the matter. It's for the better. Downton is adapting. It must if you Crawley's refuse to leave."

"It's _home_ ," I say to my husband.

"It is," he says, eyes flickering around the room. "Truly."

I rise to leave the room, when he clears his throat. "Yes?"

"I was going through the attic earlier. Some of Henry's things are up there; were you aware?"

Wrinkling my nose, I ask, "What things?"

"Stuff from his office, I suppose. It's in a box, packed in a haphazard manner, I must say. And—well, there was a note about that woman, Miss Pruitt."

My back stiffens. My façade starts to build itself back up. "Oh?"

"Yes. He seemed, erm, quite fond of her. I thought he was just using her."

"I really don't know. It seems of little relevance now. Who knows what they were planning. I do not wish to know. She wanted me gone, of that I am sure."

Tom's gaze switches from the mantle back to me. His brows furrow. "I— "

"I love you, Tom Branson. Some may say I am _mad_ because of it. My love for you only grows."

He stands too, closing the distance, as his arms wrap around me. " _Mary_ ," he whispers. His lips press at the nape of my neck.

I have a husband. I have children. I have Downton.

" _Parfait, Mademoiselle Mary. Bien joue," Miss Prior praises._

" _Merci, Madame."_

* * *

 _ **So, thank you for reading. This was my longest one-shot to date coming in at 10,00+ words. This was very different and for that reason, I have been writing it over a span of several weeks. I thought we could all use this though on Election Day.**_

 _ **I have never written a Brary story in first person and so that was daunting in itself. It is for that reason that I decided to play a bit with the mind. I drafted this thing and it was headed one way, then another, until it settled on this. Out of everything I was trying to do, I am happy with this result.**_

 _ **I know how I think this story goes. I will not impose that view on you though because I am very curious to see what you think. I brought Bates into it which I never really mention him in other stories.**_

 _ **Also this was Catholicism heavy. Tom's faith is talked about canon a lot season 3 then kind of drifts off. I wanted to bring it back along with the viewpoint of the Church and divorce. This was not meant to offend anyone. I am Catholic. It was added to explore something new, again.**_

 _ **Disclaimer: I own nothing Downton Abbey related. The only characters I own are Miss Prior and Lilith. Though, they are very central to the plot. I do not often like bringing in OC into things, but for this, I felt it was a must.**_

 _ **I dusted off my French, with the help of my memory and WordReference, this was created. Some conjugations may be wrong, forgive me.**_

 _ **Also, the Usual Suspects is a movie I highly recommend. I saw it at least a month ago and that quote stuck with me as something I wanted to use in something, anything. Well, here we are. I know there wasn't as much romance, but there was feeling.**_

 _ **And as I said before:**_ **never** _ **trust the narrator. Every story has a bit of truth and fiction.**_

 _ **Please review and let me know any and every thought you had on this story. Find me on tumblr: mrsmarybranson (you may PM or message me if you truly want to know what I think did or didn't happen)**_

 _ **Good bye now. I am hoping to watch the first woman be elected president.**_


End file.
